


Promises to Keep

by phoenike



Series: The Leonardo Effect [5]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:34:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1851493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenike/pseuds/phoenike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonardo pays a visit to an old friend. A side story for my fic "The Leonardo Effect".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promises to Keep

**Author's Note:**

> Serious spoilers for the main fic. You've been warned. I don't recommend reading this until after Chapter 19.
> 
> Beta read by Elenilote and EasternViolet, thank you again my dears <3

**_Repubblica Fiorentina 1476_ **

After walking through the velvet darkness that soothes the sun-baked streets and campos of the city, the painter stops to watch the _casa di tolleranza_ that is his destination.

The house faces a small square, unafraid to announce its purpose. Red murals that resemble silk hangings decorate its three storeys. Fragrant oleander and lush bougainvillea spill from the _altana_ above the second floor. Most of the shutters are closed, but a few gape open into the warm night. Music and laughter flow from inside, behind the girls who sit on sills and flirt with the men passing by. Every evening a crowd gathers just to ogle at their beauty, and this one is not an exception.

It is almost inconceivable that these young creatures so full of life would under a barber’s knife split and reveal the same layers of existence as a wizened old man. They seem so falsely perfect in the mellow glow of their lanterns. Why does lack of light, the source of all life, make things appear more beautiful instead of less?

There is so much he’s yet to understand of nature. But alas, finding answers to such questions is not tonight’s purpose. The painter pulls the hood of his cloak deeper over his head and, with his face turned away from light, walks past the house.

The servants’ entrance lies half buried beneath a flight of narrow stairs. He descends, knocks, and waits. Finally, a small hatch in the door opens to reveal the face of a middle-aged woman, lighted by a single hand-held candle that casts its faint glow through the square hole.

“ _Allora._ What is it?” the woman asks, suspicious. “Too late for _venditori._ Come back tomorrow.” She makes to knock the shutter back in its place.

The painter’s bearded mouth curves into a smile under the shadow of his hood. _“Ma come non mi riconoscete, Zia Filippa?”_

The woman’s eyes widen. _“Madonna!”_ she gasps.

The hatch closes. A bolt is drawn, and a latch turned. Then the door opens.

A stout woman in a servant’s dress gestures for him to bow himself through. After peering out as if to make sure no one has seen, she latches the door, leaving them safe from prying eyes in a small, dry spare room that is used to store crates and sacks of goods.

As the painter pushes back his hood, the surprise on the servant’s face transforms into something that soothes ten years from her face. She places her candle on a wooden box and comes to embrace him with a tenderness that makes both her body and voice quiver. The top of her head barely reaches his shoulder.

“ _Bentornato, bentornato, caro ragazzo!_ _No ci vediamo da tanto tempo!_ ” As she pulls away, she wipes the corners of her eyes in her apron. “You have become a man! And what a man! So tall and beautiful. Oh, my old heart cannot take it. How many years has it been?”

He smiles. “ _Buona sera_ , Filippa.”

“ _Buona sera, ragazzo._ Why are you so thin? Does your abominable master not feed you?”

His cloak protects him from prying eyes, but it can’t keep much from the strong arms that just embraced him.

“I am no longer with Verrocchio. I am a _maestro_ of my own, now.”

She clasps her hands together. “Ooh! Maestro Leonardo! How grand that sounds. So young and so accomplished. Are you here to see the Madame?”

“Yes, I was hoping I could speak with her.”

“Of course. Follow me, _gioia._ Madonna Paola is in the _sala_.” Filippa takes her candle and turns, but wags her finger at him over her shoulder while she goes. “So thin! After you’re done, you must come to the kitchen. Catalina is roasting doves for the guests tonight. I’m sure she can pinch one for you. No buts! I will not listen. I know the others, they would never forgive me if I allowed you to get away without letting them see you.”

The thought of food addles him. Alas, that the intellect must be a slave to such base needs. At least his stomach does not rumble. He is glad to be spared the embarrassment of admitting that he hasn’t had enough money to buy more than bread, bean porridge and ale once a day from a filthy _taberna_ down the street from his new workshop.

“Oh, I have no objections, Zia Filippa,” he says. “But I must tell you that I have decided to refrain from eating meat. I do not think men have the right to force other living beings to suffer to such an end, especially as we would do much better without the choleric effects of their meat in our diet.”

He’s almost certain that, hidden from him, Filippa rolls her eyes. “There is also pasta with an artichoke sauce and fish. Will that do?”

He has not yet decided whether the cold, bloodless creatures of water can be excluded from the caste of feeling animals. But he knows better than to give voice to his internal contention. “Of course,” he says.

“Goodness!” Zia Filippa huffs at nothing in particular as she leads him through the _cortile,_ her candle lighting the way under the starlit sky. Warmth stored through the hot day radiates from the stones of the courtyard as he walks on them.

How many hours did he spend here, sketching the _cortigiane_ as they sat outside to bleach their hair, their faces shadowed from the sun under the wide brims on which their tresses were arranged? The memory already seems like a dream.

“Where have the years gone?” Filippa mutters, as if to echo his thoughts. “Well, I am glad you’re moving up in the world, _ragazzo_. Or should I now call you maestro?”

“I will always be your _ragazzo,_ Zia Filippa.”

She waves her hand. “God save me from listening to you.”

Long before they arrive near the _sala,_ he hears the murmur of voices and music. Too late, he realizes his mistake — he should have come some other time of day. At the height of evening, the house is as full of people as it will ever be.

Filippa asks him to wait in a side chamber and goes through the door, leaving it half open to let in light and sound and scent. He waits with only her candle on a table for company.

He can’t help thinking of the many curious eyes so near. So many gossiping mouths... bleating trumpets for minds that would not think twice of entertaining themselves with his humiliation.

Suddenly he’s there again, in the lonely confines of his cell, engaged in hours upon hours of conversation with his own self. Not only imagining people and animals for company, _seeing_ them... sometimes unable to tell if he’s dreaming. The familiar feeling of being suffocated makes his head spin with panic. He clutches at his chest.

He closes his eyes and forces his lungs to push out air and draw it back in.

His body is an intricate machine, its purpose to ventilate his humors and give life to soul and reason. He counts to ten. With each count, he constructs an iron cage around the ugly memory. It becomes smaller and smaller. After reaching _dieci_ , he secures the thing with a padlock and throws it in a deep well. When he opens his eyes, he’s calm again.

_“Caro mio..!”_

Too dignified to hurry, Paola walks to him from the door with her arms raised, looking exactly the same as years ago — short and slight, the silk brocade of her dress the color of fresh blood, immense black hair braided to hang down her back. She looks like a queen. He leans down to kiss her, stealing a second of comfort from the touch of her skin. Her familiar presence helps to banish the last of the ill memory.

As he straightens and pulls away, feeling taller than ever close to her tiny frame, he sees the warmth that has lit up her face. Whatever she thinks of his visit, for a moment, the cool pride with which she carries her secrets and painful scars is gone.

Filippa retreats to continue her chores.

 _“Che piacere vederti, bambino,”_ Paola says, still clasping his hands, her voice low. “Why are you here? You must know it is dangerous. Especially so soon after...”

It is six months after he was released. But she’s right — it’s still too soon. He looks toward the half-closed door. It seems they are safe in their privacy, for now.

“Ezio Auditore came to me some days ago,” he says. “He told me that you sent him. I wish to find his mother and sister. Do you know where they are?”

She steps back to assess him. It’s less blatant than Filippa’s observing eyes before, but she understands much more of what moves beneath his surface.

“I do,” she says, then. “They’re here.”

He cannot conceal his astonishment.

Not that he doesn’t know Paola would give her life to guard Giovanni’s wife and daughter. But to bring noblewomen to a brothel? Though far from a common bawdy house, _La Rosa_ is still a house of ill repute.

But he has to admit that from a practical point of view, the idea is not without merit. Who would ever come to search for the Auditores from _here?_

“You wish to see Madonna Maria, yes?” Paola asks.

“That is my intent.”

She sighs. “I understand. But, _caro..._ I do not think that is a good idea.”

“Why?”

“She is no longer the woman you used to know.”

“What happened?”

Paola glances at the door, then steps closer and speaks in an even lower voice, forcing him to bow to hear. “Aside from what you know, which in itself could unhinge a mother’s mind, the serving girl who brought her and her children here tells that when the Gonfaloniere’s men came, she resisted the arrest of her husband and sons. She wounded one of the guards with a dagger, nearly killing him. They... punished her. It happened with the others held nearby. Annette, their serving girl, told me that more than ten men had their way with her. They would have done the same to Claudia, but Giovanni had made her hide in the cellars, and they could not find her.”

 _“Dio mio.”_ Worse, much worse than he feared. He straightens, void of expression. “I still wish to see her.”

She watches him, something like pity in her eyes. “As you wish. Follow me.”

She does not take him through the _sala._ Instead, they go upstairs by way of the servant’s passage.

“I do not think that Ezio is here,” Paola tells him, sotto voce, as they ascend to the attic. “I train him during the day, whatever time I can steal, but the evenings he keeps to himself.”

As always, Leonardo’s mind churns with questions, but now is not the time.

With each step up the stairs, the air becomes heavier and warmer. Sweat breaks on his skin and dribbles down his spine. He knows that, on account of the stone floors, the sounds coming from the chambers where the _cortigiani_ ply their trade does not reach the attic. It is a blessing to know that Madonna Maria and her family will not have to tolerate unseemly noises. But in all other respects, the attic is a terrible place to live in the summer. Even after sunset, the air under the roof is so overheated that inhaling it feels like trying to breathe in thick broth.

Paola leads him to an inconspicuous door and knocks on it.

 _“Sì?”_ comes a young woman’s voice from inside.

“It is me, _piccola,”_ Paola says. “And a trusted friend.”

There’s a moment’s pause, possibly to allow for some corrections of appearance. Then a slender girl of fifteen unlatches and opens the door.

Claudia Auditore is wearing a fine yellow and brown silk robe, fastened with silver clasps over a linen gown — an outfit suitable for her class, but not the temperature. Under a velvet cap, her hair is plastered to her temples with sweat.

Leonardo has only seen Claudia before from afar. Noblemen’s daughters are generally not allowed the company of unmarried men. Perhaps for that very reason, the brief look she gives him in return is both frightened and deeply curious.

 _“Buona sera, signora. Signore.”_ She bends her knees and casts her eyes toward the floor.

Paola is no _signora,_ and Leonardo is most definitely not a _signore._ But he appreciates her show of respect.

“ _Buona sera,_ _piccola,”_ Paola says. “This is Maestro Leonardo. I have brought him to see Madonna Maria.”

_“Molto bene.”_

Despite the words, Claudia lingers in the doorway. Something about the innate cleverness of her expression reminds Leonardo very much of her brother. Her eyes resemble his, as well — quick and large, an unusual light brown color, framed by thick, dark lashes. But where Ezio already shows some of the masculinity that will overcome the softness of his boyhood, Claudia’s countenance is flat and round. Pretty in her youth, certainly, but she lacks the striking contrasts that make her brother’s face so distracting.

She opens her mouth, then closes it. Clearly she wants to say something, but does not possess the courage to do so. If Leonardo knows the late Giovanni, his only daughter is anything but a simpering airhead. Still, after leading a sheltered life in her father’s palazzo, it must be shocking for her to suddenly find herself in such a place, surrounded by strangers.

He smiles encouragement, laying on as much reassuring charm as he can. _“E’ un piacere, signorina._ I promise not to be a burden to your esteemed mother.”

Her lovely eyes widen. Then she gives him the shadow of a smile.

“I — I am not sure Mother is well enough to receive guests, signore. Her condition —”

Paola steps closer and puts an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “ _Piccola,_ Maestro Leonardo knows of her condition. Please accompany me to my room for a moment? It must be terrible to be closed up in here, week after week. I shall have something refreshing brought us from the cellar.”

“But — I should not allow a man into —”

“Maestro Leonardo is a physician, a gentleman, and a good friend of your mother’s. Perhaps you would enjoy a cool bath, _cara mia?”_

At that, Claudia’s eyes become dreamy. “ _Sì..._ that does sound very nice, signora.”

Leonardo notices the girl’s worried glance as she is guided away. But she seems to trust Paola. The Madame of _La Rosa Colta_ does know how to make people to do so, whether or not she is honest in her good intentions.

Left alone, Leonardo removes his cloak and folds it on his arm, revealing the tidy dress he has put on in hope of this occasion. He smoothes down his hair, carefully combed when he left the _bottega,_ now already curling in the heat.

He steps inside.

Only a few candles burn on a table against the dark. The shutters have been left ajar, but the stifling air still smells of the presence of living, sweating bodies. From outside, a gentle echo of moans and cries drifts up from the _camera_ below, carried in by heated air. To his dismay, Leonardo realizes that the Auditore women are not as insulated from the truth of their surroundings as he had hoped.

“Madonna Maria?”

Nothing stirs in the shadows.

He proceeds further into the room. It is simply furnished with a great canopied bed and a few coffers. The remains of a meal, some papers, writing utensils and Claudia’s embroidery frame yield it its few signs of life. Leonardo knows that Ezio lives in another room — a family of a lower standing would not care, but for a nobleman, it would be unthinkable to share the same living quarters with his young sister.

He notices her at last.

She stands kneeling at the distant side of the bed. Her face is turned away from light. Her head is bowed, her hands clutching a rosary on the bed cover. She wears a dark silk dress and her hair is gathered back in a velvet cap not unlike her daughter’s. Somehow it looks as if her tidiness is the result of someone else’s efforts, not her own.

“Madonna?”

She does not stir. Her shoulders are more sloped than he remembers, her frame slighter.

Hesitant, he approaches. On the bed, Madonna Maria’s fingers glide over a bead in the rosary. Her lips move silently in what must be a prayer.

_Oh, no._

He kneels by her, slow so as not to startle.

Whatever strife remains in her exists only within. Her fine patrician profile is calm. Leonardo sees no signs of violence on her. But he can sense how it lingers in her, heavy like the three corpses hanging by their necks from the gallows.

For him, loneliness is a punishment more terrifying than death. What pain, what loss can be so great that it drives a soul to isolate itself willingly from all company and comfort? To see her reduced to this — the woman who once spoke with such courage to the Signoria, fearing no man nor God...

“Oh, Madonna.”

He does not cry. Not quite.

Neither does he offer her empty condolences. What could he say? Words would be abject mockery in the face of her loss. _The Lord gave, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord._ With intense dislike, he thinks of priests, safe to patronize and preach from the safety of their clerical opulence.

Should he tell her that her son — the last one that remains — has come to him and asked him to repair Giovanni’s mechanical dagger? He thinks of the harness, already finished, of the long hours spent deciphering the old Codex and discovering the secret of the wheel-powered spring, drawing meticulous diagrams for a Brescian-taught weaponsmith to forge the incredibly strong and sharp blade needed. A worthy challenge, one that has pushed his skills to their limit, but he seems to be succeeding.

Madonna Maria’s eyes close and open slowly in the dark.

She resembles her son, too. Or rather, he resembles her. Her aquiline features. Her pride and nobility and grace. Yet there is nothing feminine in Ezio. His flawless figure is already full of the promise of the man to come. His face is masculine, fearless, both quick to show emotion and to hide it. With everything, unknowing, he invites. The bold sway of his walk. His sultry, flashing eyes. The way his still youthful voice sometimes lowers into a growl and makes one wonder how it would sound crying out in —

No, Leonardo does not deserve to speak to Madonna Maria of her son. If anything, he owes it to her to apologize. But even that is something he cannot do.

He’s weak. It is that weakness which landed him in imprisonment and trial. And he’s not a saint. In this house of whores, if ever, he cannot pretend virtue which he does not possess. The boy is curious and eager to trust him. Someone who is familiar with the workings of men’s hearts could twist such eagerness into what it is not. It isn’t even as if Ezio would not enjoy it. Leonardo, if anyone, knows how to give men pleasure.

He does not deserve to speak to Madonna Maria of her son. Not when he fights against such unworthy desires. The only thing he can do is swear he will never act upon them. But how? He cannot say the words.

Yet perhaps there is another oath he owes her.

The candles burn lower. At last Leonardo speaks.

“Signora. When I hoped for death, you gave me life. I would do anything for you and yours. And I will. I will not spare pain or effort to help bring your enemies to ruin. And I will do so acting with decency and honor. By the breath and blood that move me, this I swear. So help me God.”

After a last moment beside the silent woman, he pushes to his feet and leaves.

o o o

He goes to Paola’s room and knocks on her door. After a moment, she slinks out, pulling the door shut behind her, not to allow indecent glimpses to what is happening within.

“Come, _caro,_ let us speak,” she says.

She leads him into a small antechamber. _The Rosa_ boasts a design unlike that of more traditional casas and palazzos where _cameras_ , _salas_ and _scrittoios_ connect one after another. Instead, the house has been built to allow discreet access to every part of it without passing through private rooms to do so. It also hides secret doors, peepholes and stairs, and connects through the cellars to the ancient underground sewers of the Romans. All of this has made it an important meeting place for the assassins in Firenze.

“Ezio plans to kill the Gonfaloniere,” Paola says as soon as they are private again.

 _“Oddio,”_ Leonardo says and sits on a coffer. “Already? He must know it will more likely lead to his own ruin than that of Uberto’s.”

“I cannot sway his mind. All I can do is try to prevent the fool from killing himself.”

“How does his training go?”

“Well, he is tireless and motivated and obviously very much Giovanni’s son. But there is so little time.” Paola closes her eyes and rubs her temples as if to soothe an ache. “Oh Gio, my dear friend! How could you imagine that sheltering your sons would protect them? Did you truly think that they would not be exposed to the truth? Now it has happened in the worst manner possible, and you have left me with the task of teaching in weeks what should have taken years to accomplish! Thank God Ezio has a natural talent for it. He will become as great as his father was, one day. Perhaps better. If only he survives that long.”

Ezio Auditore, a great assassin? Leonardo cannot wrap his mind around the thought. The boy is mostly renowned for stirring up trouble in girls’ bedrooms. A lover by nature, not a killer. Then again, he’s not without skills in _pugna_ and the _palio_. Francesco, whom Giovanni was training to be his successor, has taught him to climb and run the roofs. And going by his many bloody confrontations with the Pazzi gang, he definitely has the violent streak required by his father’s profession.

Paola sighs. “What I wanted to ask is... should you be able to put off finishing the weapon for now, I would be much obliged. Give me three weeks. Can you do that?”

“ _Ma certo_. But how will that help?”

“Ezio is fixed on the idea that he will use his father’s blade to kill Uberto. A matter of poetic justice, I believe.”

“I see.”

Leonardo had planned to have the blade ready in a week. But it will be easy to invent excuses. He’s a busy man, after all. And truth be told, he could use the time to acquire a bit of money to feed himself, instead of throwing all he has into yet another project that will bring him no compensation aside from the pleasure of helping.

Now his stomach actually rumbles.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Paola sighs. “Don’t tell me you aren’t eating enough, _caro mio!”_

“Well... I tend to get so caught up with work.”

“Indeed. Let me arrange something.”

He raises his hand to stop her from going for the bell that will call a servant.

“No, please. I promised Filippa I will eat with her and the staff in the kitchen.” Well, he hasn’t truly done any such thing — but he much prefers the idea to a lonely meal.

“Very well.” She shakes her head, and watches him fondly. “I remember how they used to spoil you. And you did everything you could to encourage them, you _mascalzone_.”

“Well, I was a growing lad, I needed all the sustenance I could get.”

“As if they wouldn’t have stuffed you full without all the eye-batting and sweet words! No wonder you grew so tall! But yet, so thin... do you have enough money now that you’ve left Verrocchio’s workshop?”

“I do find work. Somehow it just doesn’t seem to transform into coin the way it should.”

She gives him one of her rare, throaty laughs. _“Nientedimeno!_ You know you can always come to me for anything you need, yes?”

“ _Vi ringrazio,_ madonna, but I must try and make do on my own.”

“That pride will one day be your undoing. Well, do at least try to visit more often. You have a way of seeing through things and I would appreciate your counsel. _Sì?”_

“ _Bene._ I will.”

She reaches for him. He stands up and holds her small fingers in his own, long and callused from work — very different from those of the young man who once lived and worked within these walls. So different he can hardly fathom it, even though the scented, bejeweled softness of that boy was mostly a ruse.

“Thank you, Leonardo,” Paola says. “Perhaps, after a few more weeks of training... well, as long as I can stop Ezio from getting impatient and storming the Gonfaloniere’s palazzo with nothing but Giovanni’s stiletto.”

“The least I can do, _principessa.”_

A tiny furrow appears between her brows. “Do tell me that your... recent trouble no longer haunts you? Not even Madonna Maria could get you out before the trial. If only we knew the name of the malicious _bastardo_ who left the note in the _tamburo._ I still believe it was some lackey of Uberto’s, punishing you for your connections with the Auditore family. I would like to tear the man’s heart out myself.”

Perhaps due to the touch of her warm fingers, he gets past the mention of his trial without trouble. “Do not worry on my account, Paola. I will survive.”

“I would have you do more than just survive, _caro._ How about happiness? Do not distance yourself from the world out of fear.”

“Work makes me happy.” He fakes an easy smile, a talent which all those who have sold themselves for other’s entertainment share.

She does not quite seem to believe him. But she does not argue, either. A moment later, he departs in search of the kitchen and the artichoke pasta he was promised, and Paola returns to the life he left behind six years ago.

Already, it feels like a distant dream full of glittering and sighs and shadow.

o o o

Two days later, Giovanni’s son arrives again to check on the progress Leonardo has made on the blade.

This time, Leonardo actually manages to let the boy in without hitting his head on the doorframe or knocking over a project or letting on in any other way how low his asinine infatuation has reduced him.

He hasn’t left his workshop for the whole day except to meet a friend at the tavern briefly during midday meal. The city is agog with news of two sodomites being punished at the Piazza. Leonardo has no interest whatsoever in hearing people talk about it. Yet his bittersweet happiness at Ezio’s visit soon wanes to some extent as he learns that the boy is coming from the very spectacle.

At least he seems thoughtful rather than excited. Clothed in Giovanni’s robes which fit him so well that Leonardo knows they will soon have to be redone, he paces around the workshop and then throws himself to lean against Leonardo’s desk, his arms folded.

“To see men so disfigured... _che puttanata!_ ”

A memory comes to Leonardo, of a man tied to the pillory for a day —  too weak to even cry for mercy, in the end, soiled with filth, broken and bloodied from being pelted with stones. That could all too easily have been his fate, too.

He sits behind his desk and takes a quill to stop his hand from shaking.

“Do you not think they deserved it, then?” he asks, hoping that his voice does not betray his investment in the question.

Ezio gives him a bewildered look. “No!”

Is it just the Gonfaloniere’s betrayal — a man supposed to be a most humble servant of the state — that makes the boy doubt the justice of the Signoria’s verdict? Or something else? Leonardo should not press the issue. But he cannot help himself.

“Why not?”

Ezio colors and looks away. “Do not mistake me, messere, the thought of the men’s crime disgusts me. But only murderers and traitors deserve to be tortured.”

Of course. It is not sympathy toward the men’s deed that makes Ezio detest their fate, it is his natural empathy. He does not enjoy seeing others suffer, nor find justice in it. That, at least, is a blessing, however little comfort there is for Leonardo in the boy’s judgment of what led the men to such an end.

_He will never know. It was a closed trial. Madonna Maria saw to it._

True to his promise to Paola, Leonardo is yet to take his designs to the weaponsmith. But he shows them to Ezio, as well as other drawings, to demonstrate how the device will appear and function when it is finished. Ezio peruses the papers and praises their style and precision. To his chagrin, Leonardo blushes at the admiration of this seventeen-year-old and proceeds to do what he always does when he’s nervous — to talk too much. He explains his plans in an altogether unnecessary level of detail.

When he gets to describing the mechanism that will eject the blade, his expositions become complicated. It is challenging to put to words what he knows, when the language itself lacks the means to do so, and most people still think that the workings of a simple clock are as magical as an old wife’s spell.

Despite Ezio’s initial interest, his eyes soon start to look bleary. Finally he yawns.

“ _Dio_ , I’m tired. Paola has worked me like a slave driver. Can I stay here to sleep for a moment? All I need is a corner to lie in. 

“Certainly!” Leonardo hides his horror. 

Flustered and still prattling, he clears a bench under a window, pleasantly cool with a breeze coming from outside. He folds an old cloak to serve as a pillow. Ezio throws himself down, his back to the wall, and falls asleep almost as soon as his head touches the roll of cloth.

Leonardo sits back at his desk. He takes his quill and dips it in ink, determined to continue working. He’s trying to finish something that could bring in some money, for a change: a plan to connect Firenze to the Tyrrhenian Sea by way of a canal, bypassing the unnavigable Arno. Such a grandiose undertaking may never come to pass, but perhaps, when presented to Il Magnifico, it could secure its creator a position as his court engineer.

Several minutes later, Leonardo’s quill is yet to touch the paper.

He leans back in his chair and stares at the boy. For someone who is planning murder, Ezio’s sleep seems enviably untroubled.

Leonardo’s own nightly slumber is rarely peaceful. So many ideas and visions compete for his attention that, more often than not, he struggles to get enough rest. After a small incident with a burning candle in Verrocchio’s workshop, he no longer allows himself to drift off at his desk, but he still often works through the night and only goes to sleep when exhaustion overwhelms the clamor of his thoughts.

How strange that the boy already trusts him enough to sleep in his workshop.

How terrifying that Leonardo so little deserves that trust.

He knows that his vow not to act upon his desires does not free him of guilt. All he can do is hide such feelings as deep as he hides the madness of his imprisonment and hope that a sin not acted upon will not once be held against him.

At least his ordeal will be over in mere weeks. After the mechanical blade is finished and Paola’s training is complete, Giovanni’s son will... well. Even if Ezio succeeds in assassinating the Gonfaloniere, his family is unlikely to stay in Firenze. Their reputation in the city is destroyed, their fortunes and businesses confiscated. Ezio has already mentioned his wish to take his mother and sister abroad — to Castile, perhaps. Before that, to Monteriggioni, where an uncle of his lords over a villa. Neither are places which Leonardo is ever likely to visit.

Despite how painful it is to think that he might never see the boy again, it is also a relief. For what could be worse than suffer such desires year after year, unable to confess them? Leonardo can hardly bear to think of it. Perhaps it is the very knowledge of the incoming separation that keeps him sane.

A few weeks, at most. A month. No more.

However, surely the Almighty would not deny him the sweet self-torture of capturing on paper that which he cannot have? It feels like such a small evil. He does not believe in an unforgiving, petty God. And eternity is long.

He takes paper and a silverpoint stylus, crosses through the workshop to where the boy is sleeping, and settles cross-legged on the floor to sketch.


End file.
